


i would love you ten years before the flood

by nextstopparis



Series: merthur week [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i think???, where are the horses who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28274766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextstopparis/pseuds/nextstopparis
Summary: As if it's the most natural thing in the world: his magic and Arthur intertwined.For Day 3 of Merthur Week 2020: "You're hurt. Please, just let me heal it." + Hurt/Comfort
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: merthur week [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067786
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66
Collections: Merthur Week 2020





	i would love you ten years before the flood

**Author's Note:**

> this was a lot easier to write than i thought it would be. that, ofc, says nothing about its quality though. 
> 
> title from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell.

They’re walking back from a mission gone horribly wrong. The horses got lost, somewhere between the clanging swords and thumping bodies. Arthur looks forward, only ever forward, and clenches his jaw. The last word he’d said was a quiet order to start walking, only for Merlin’s ears.

At the beginning of the mission, five other knights had been with them. 

Five knights Merlin had never really known, not outside of Arthur’s reports, anyway, but is grieving all the same. He dreads walking back through Camelot’s gates, dreads what comes after, because it’s always Arthur that goes to tell the families, on occasions like this; when men die outside of war, and of course Merlin is always there - outside, a few feet away - waiting for him. 

And the thing about it is: he respects Arthur’s need to keep to himself when mourning. He knows his prince is private and prefers his anger to wage a war against itself, sheltered by his organs and bones, rather than acted on through his words and hands. He knows it’s better to approach him, later, when he turns to alcohol, and take the goblet from him gently then.

But Merlin also knows the way Arthur’s body moves when he’s hurt, and every single tell regarding how badly he’s hurt. He knows the stiffness of Arthur’s shoulders as well as he knows the flexing muscles of his back and arms. Merlin has catalogued every way he breathes - soft and slow, to quick and sharp - and every way he walks. He knows Arthur’s leisurely steps and duty bound marches. He knows Arthur better than even Arthur knows himself, and so of course he can tell that he’s in pain.

So he would be okay to just let the silence go on. He would be, really. Except Arthur’s breaths are shallow and his steps are stiff. His shoulders sag and straighten in turns, as if he momentarily forgets the pain in his grief, but cannot bear it when he’s reminded. His left hand clutches the hilt of his sword, and it’s obvious in the way his grip never shifts or slackens or tightens that it has nothing to do with the caution of potentially being attacked; more like it’s a tether to cling to - something to do instead of actually acknowledging the pain.

It might even be easier, to say nothing. After all, he has no healing supplies, so they’ll have to acknowledge this thing they’ve both very obviously been not acknowledging since Cornelius Sigan’s attack but -

Honestly. It doesn’t matter at all, because nothing can be worse than making Arthur feel more pain than he needs to. So on his next step, Merlin reaches out an arm and gently grips the prince’s elbow, hoping he’s not adding to the ache. He can’t tell where it is or how it got there, but he can guess that it isn’t the small sort of wound that will go away with indifference.

“Arthur,” he says gently, and almost detects fear in the blue eyes he memorized all those months ago.

“We’re almost there, Merlin, surely you can wait to rest.” His voice is soft, and his voice sounds like it wants to be authoritative, like it wants to have its usual drawl that leads to a bickering match between them, but also like it can’t quite manage. He forces the prince to stop.

“Come on, let me see.” 

“There’s nothing to -” he tries pulling out of Merlin’s grip, but this feels profound in a way thats only really registered once before: when he was saying goodbye after the questing beast, and all of a sudden he just - cannot bear Arthur pulling away from him.

“Arthur, you’re hurt. _Please_ just let me heal it.” And he thinks that maybe his voice is desperate enough, or maybe his eyes are, because Arthur doesn’t argue any further than that. He sighs, softly, and nods in defeat. 

“I - I’m going to have to use -”

“I know.”

_Magic._

Maybe it should be a bigger deal, when he sits the crowned prince of Camelot down on a log, and openly declares to him that he will be using magic. Maybe it should be scarier, voicing this knowledge they’d both been refusing to voice. Maybe he should be more scared for his life, his future, his destiny, than for a man who - as far as he knows - could very much ruin all of those things with a single word. 

But it’s hard, to watch blood drip down his chest and fear anything other than not ever feeling his breaths again. It’s difficult to be afraid of anything other than never being able to watch him move, in that beautiful and natural way only he can, ever again. 

So Merlin crouches at his prince’s feet, grips his thighs on his way down just to feel the shift of muscle, and covers the horrible gash with his hand. He doesn’t utter a word, letting the magic flow out of his palm and skitter across Arthur’s body.

He can feel the restiching of the skin, can see - in an abstract way - the closing of the wound, and marvels at how easy it is. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world: his magic and Arthur intertwined. 

(Perhaps because it is.) 

Merlin rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder, once it’s done, and wonders what it is he’s recovering from. He thinks it might be the intimacy, except - that’s not something he wants to recover from. If there’s anything to be ruined by, anything to surrender and sacrifice himself for, surely that is the only worthy thing. 

Arthur’s cheek leans against the side of his head, and he thinks the hand carding through his hair is the only form of thanks the prince of Camelot can offer a sorcerer who just used magic to heal him, without committing treason.

(His eyes were closed the whole time Merlin’s were golden. Arthur thought it was a mercy. Merlin agreed.)

And it shouldn’t feel this fulfilling, to know that Arthur’s chosen _his_ side in his father’s war, but it does. It feels like every promise once made to him being kept, and Merlin smiles, because Arthur has somehow managed to become more than he could’ve ever hoped for _._

The wound is healed, but the blood still coats Arthur’s shoulder and neck. Merlin traces the random scatter of it with his eyes. The red is dark and a terribly beautiful contrast to the golden prince’s golden hair, and Merlin thinks that the Pendragon’s chose their colours well. 

Arthur bleeds like any man, but shines in a way no one else could ever hope to.

**Author's Note:**

> o o f. anyway. lol. thanks for reading!! i hope you enjoyed enough to not think it was a waste of time!!


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